by Mark Timlin
‘Simple. I’m not supposed to know those two arseholes. They don’t know me. We all know you. You’re the ideal man for the job.’
‘I only met the pair of them last week. What do they know?’
‘A lot about you, from what I could gather yesterday. They’ve been doing a bit of checking into your background.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Certainly is. And they’re well impressed. They think you’re the business.’
‘So I’m the mug that gets nicked.’
‘Amongst others.’
‘Couldn’t I just slip away in the confusion?’
‘We’ll see.’
I bet we will, I thought.
About then Brady seemed to get bored with the conversation and swung round on his seat to regard the rest of the clientele of the bar. ‘This place sucks,’ he said.
‘You chose it.’
‘Yeah, I know. You want to eat here?’
‘No thanks. If you’re going to buy me lunch, I want to go somewhere that’s got four walls and a better wine list.’
‘I didn’t expect snobbery from you. Not when you work where you do.’
‘You’d be amazed,’ I replied.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s have another beer and then find a restaurant.’
‘Suits me,’ I said.
We got more beers and poured them. Outside a car pulled up at the kerb. It was a gunmetal-grey Six Series BMW. From where I was sitting I could read the number plate: SPL1F. So could Brady. Two black guys got out. The driver was huge, with locks and a shell suit. Green, orange and black. The passenger was smaller. Slimmer. Sharp in a double-breasted suit, shirt and tie. Shiny shoes and short neat hair.
Brady clocked them and his face darkened. ‘I hate that shit,’ he said. ‘Splif, I ask you. Fucking schwartzes. They’ve always got to spoil it by being flash.’
A young punter in the bar – handsome, blond, wearing expensive sweats – saw the two blacks and left his coffee and went outside. Brady and I watched him go up to them.
‘They’re doing a fucking deal,’ said Brady. ‘Fucking bastards. In broad daylight. Jesus, I don’t believe this.’
‘Believe it,’ I said.
That seemed to make him even madder, if anything. ‘Fuck that shit,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to let them get away with that. Taking the piss.’
‘Brady,’ I said. ‘You’re supposed to be a drugs dealer yourself. A drugs dealer out to lunch. If you want to do anything, call the police.’
‘Fuck that,’ he said again. ‘No one knows me round here. I’ll do it myself.’ He stepped off his stool. ‘Watch and learn, son,’ he said, and pushed through the crowd to the door of the bar. I stepped off my stool, too, and went to the open window. A young girl in a window seat with a glass of Coke and that day’s Mail open in front of her looked up at me. I smiled down at her. She didn’t smile back. I shrugged. What the hell, I thought. No one’s charm works all the time.
Brady went up to the trio. ‘Police,’ he said. The young white guy looked sick and stepped back a pace. ‘Stand still,’ said Brady. ‘You as much as move a muscle and you are in some deep shit, believe me.’
The boy said nothing. ‘Do you hear me,’ Brady screamed into his face. All of a sudden the people in the bar started taking notice.
The boy nodded. His face was pale.
Brady turned to the two black guys. ‘You,’ he said to the smaller one. ‘Empty your pockets.’
‘What,’ the black geezer replied. ‘Are you sure?’
Brady slapped him round the face hard. ‘Don’t fuck with me, cunt,’ he shouted. His face red and mad-looking. ‘I’m a police officer. Empty your pockets.’
‘I don’t have to…’ said the black guy, and Brady grabbed him and shoved him against the car. Then the driver decided to make a move and grabbed Brady’s arm. Brady turned and chopped him on the side of the neck with the other hand, almost casually. Then he took hold of a handful of his locks and started slamming his head against the top of the car. I suddenly realised how strong he was. The driver was massive but he didn’t have a chance. Brady just kept picking up his head and whacking it down on top of the car until the roof of the BMW was dented with the force of the blows, and blood started leaking from the big guy’s nose and ears and splashing over his shell suit and Brady’s jacket. After fifteen or twenty seconds of that treatment, Brady stopped and let him go, so he staggered around glassy-eyed and dazed.
It was then I realised that Brady was quite mad.
‘Now empty your fucking pockets,’ Brady screamed at the smaller guy, who this time did as he was told. A wallet, handkerchief, small change appeared, and Brady took them and threw them on to the bonnet of the car. Then it started to get interesting. First the guy took out a knife. A switch-blade with a mother-of-pearl handle. Brady dropped it into the gutter and stamped on it with his Doc Marten’s boot until it broke into four or five pieces. The black guy looked sick. Brady snapped his fingers, and reluctantly the black guy took half a dozen white paper wraps from his shirt pocket. Brady bared his teeth and let them slip between his fingers on to the pavement, and ground them into the concrete with the heel of his boot until the paper disintegrated, and still he kept grinding the white powder until it was mud.
‘Now get into the car, both of you, and get lost, and never let me see your faces round here again.’
They did as they were told. The smaller bloke took the wheel. I doubt if his minder could see, let alone see to drive. As the car pulled slowly away, Brady lashed out with his foot at the rear number plate. He must have had steel toe-caps on his DMs as it cracked from the force of the kick but it didn’t seem to hurt his foot at all.
Then he grabbed a handful of the blond guy’s sweat jacket. ‘Go!’ roared Brady. ‘Go now. And don’t let me see you here again either.’
The blond boy didn’t need to be told twice. He turned around and nearly ran down the hill in the direction of Camden Town.
Brady came back into the bar. It was silent. We had no difficulty in getting our seats back at the bar. The other customers were only too pleased to give us plenty of elbow-room. A lot of the punters headed towards the front door and some of the others in the direction of the washrooms.
‘Lots of toilet action now,’ said Brady with a grin, as he picked up his glass. ‘Mostly women. Flushing all sorts of stuff that their chickenshit boyfriends have given them. You’ll be able to get stoned drinking the water in the Ladies in a minute.’
‘I think I’ll stick with the beer,’ I said.
23
By that time the staff in the place were giving us very weird looks and starting to whisper to each other.
‘I think we’d better go,’ I said.
‘You reckon?’
‘Unless you want to get involved with the local Old Bill.’
‘I’d rather eat lunch.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
‘OK.’
We drank up and left. I felt every eye in the room on us as we went. ‘Where to?’ I asked when we got outside. To tell you the truth, I just fancied getting off the street quick. I really didn’t care where we went. The whole business was beginning to get to me.
‘Chinese?’ asked Brady.
‘That’ll do.’
We walked up to the corner. On the next street, out of sight of the bar, was a Pekinese restaurant. It looked OK from the outside. We walked in and I sighed with relief. The main man came perambulating over and showed us to a table in the corner, behind an overgrown cheeseplant. It was quiet inside, so we got one meant for four. I can’t stand eating at little tables. The waiter came over with the menus and we ordered up a pair of G&Ts and a couple of rounds of prawn crackers to be going on with.
I scanned the menu and knew exactly what I wanted. I’m a sucker for sweetcorn and crab-meat soup. I can’t resist i
t. After that I fancied prawns in chilli sauce, soft noodles in a soup, and stir-fried vegetables. Brady wanted butterfly prawns and spring-rolls, then he wanted to ponce around with the crispy duck, so I said I’d have a bit – but I always eat too many of the pancakes and spoil the rest of the meal. Then he chose crispy fried beef, Szechuan-style sweet and sour pork and egg fried rice. No one was going to go hungry at our table, that was for sure. The waiter came over and we ordered. Plus Brady asked for a bottle of house white. The waiter left us to our gins and scurried off to the kitchen with our order.
‘You were getting very friendly with Seeley yesterday,’ I said.
‘Prat. I’d like to wring his scrawny little neck. You were getting pretty friendly with Jools. His wife, indeed.’
‘So what’s all that about?’
‘Christ knows. She’s just some old slapper he pulled out of a whorehouse somewhere. That’s his game.’
‘Maybe it’s love,’ I said.
‘Don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I never could understand heterosexuals. Anyway, whatever she is, don’t be getting too pally. I hear he’s a jealous man.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t. She’s not my type.’ Which was a lie. ‘She asked me if I was gay like you.’
‘She sussed me out, did she?’
‘In a minute.’
He shrugged.
‘What do you reckon to Hughes?’ I asked, changing the subject.
‘A real charmer. I wouldn’t trust him with a stick of gum. He’s the one to watch. He’s carrying, too.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t you notice?’
‘Out of practice,’ I said. ‘Do you think it was him that killed your two men?’
‘We don’t know. If we had evidence, don’t you think we’d move on him without all this play-acting?’
‘Well, do you think it was one of his firm?’
‘I keep telling you, we don’t know. They’re not the only targets that the squad are chasing. It could be any of them. Or none of them. Now, don’t keep asking stupid questions.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Keep your shirt on. Tell me what happened yesterday.’
‘I tested the stuff they had with them. Good gear. Top of the range. But, like I said, you’d expect that. I ordered a kilo.’
‘How much?’
‘Thirty-five thousand quid.’
‘Good deal.’
‘A bargain. They think we could be doing a lot of business. Normally it would be cut by about a third and split into quarter-kilos and sold on at fifty a gram. But then you know all about that, don’t you?’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Do you think it’ll be the same quality as the sample?’
‘You’re talking like a real drug-dealer, Nick. You’ll have to watch that. It really doesn’t matter, does it? It’s not going to be sold on. It’ll be destroyed.’
‘Sorry, I forgot. But playing along. How much are you going to buy in the really big deal.’
‘10K.’
‘At?’
‘Depends on how I hustle it. Between twenty-five and thirty a gram. Anything up to three hundred thousand.’
I whistled. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘It’s a lot of drugs,’ he said. ‘And a lot of porridge for the people who sell them. So I hope they do a lot of talking about who they’re working for.’
‘And I’ll be in a lot of trouble,’ I said.
He didn’t reply.
‘They’ll want me dead, you know that,’ I went on.
He shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Not necessarily. Getting a pull is part of their job description. They’re never going to know who blew the whistle. I’m not sticking around. I’ll be gone to pastures new. They’ll probably finger me as a grass. We just make sure you get bail and they don’t.’
‘They’ll still be looking for me.’
‘Too bad.’
‘For me.’
‘You’ll survive, Nick. If you don’t like the deal, we can always bring out the gun with your prints all over it.’
‘I could always do a runner,’ I said.
‘You could always try.’
Just then the food arrived. We got stuck in. I took the pragmatic view of the whole thing. Hell, you’ve got to eat. And it was good, even if the company was a bit under the arm.
I pressed Brady for more details of the actual transaction, but he wouldn’t play. ‘We work on a need-to-know basis,’ he said, touching the side of his nose. ‘And right now you don’t. You’ll be told all in good time.’
We finished the meal and Brady paid from a wad of notes that thick, and he drove me back through town to my place. ‘Got a date tonight?’ he asked as he drew up in front of the house.
‘That’s right.’
‘Your sex life is improving. See, things aren’t all bad working for the Met.’
‘I think I’d rather be celibate,’ I said.
‘Don’t kid yourself.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Course you wouldn’t. Listen, I’ll be in touch soon. This thing’ll be going down in the next few days. Keep yourself available. All right?’
‘For you, always,’ I said.
He grinned ‘That’s what I like to hear. Have fun tonight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
‘Just the opposite,’ I said, as I got out of the car.
24
That evening I drove up to town, parked in the NCP at Lexington Street and walked round to the pub where I was due to meet Kylie. It was a chilly evening with a hint of rain in the air, so I took a light mackintosh with me to wear over my suit.
The Sun And Seven Cantons is a big old boozer on the corner of Beak and Great Pulteney Street. I arrived there maybe ten minutes early, got in a bottle of Bud, and took a seat at a table where I could watch both doors.
Kylie arrived at five past. Her thick blonde hair was swept back, her make-up was a masterpiece of understatement, and in the tan Burberry she was wearing with the Hermès scarf tied round her throat she looked about as much like a whore as my granny. She peered round, clocked me, smiled and came over. A couple of the male customers watched her as she crossed the carpet. I didn’t blame them. I would have done the same myself in their shoes.
‘Hello,’ she said when she got close.
‘You’re looking good,’ I said, and stood up. A proper gentleman. Mum would have been proud of me.
‘Thanks.’ She touched my hand briefly, then sat down.
I remained standing. ‘Drink?’ I asked.
‘Sure.’
‘Champagne?’
She smiled. ‘I was a bit over the top the other night, wasn’t I?’
‘You might say that.’
‘Was I bad?’
‘The worst.’
‘Did you mind?’ she asked, and raised her eyebrows coquettishly. Some woman can play that game. Some can’t. She could.
‘Not at all. So, what are you drinking?’
‘Vodka and tonic, please.’
I went to the bar and ordered her drink, and another beer for me. When I was back and seated opposite her, she said, ‘I hope I wasn’t late.’
‘No.’
‘Have you been here long?’
I tapped the first Budweiser bottle. ‘That long,’ I said.
‘So you didn’t mind waiting?’
‘No.’
‘So what are we going to do tonight?’ she asked.
‘Eat, drink and be merry, I suppose.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Where shall we eat?’ I asked.
‘I don’t care.’
‘What do you like?’
‘Anything.’
‘In particular?’
‘I’m not fussy. You choose,
’ she said.
‘Italian?’ I asked.
‘I could go a pasta. Good for my figure.’
‘I don’t think you’ve got a lot to worry about on that score.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and her eyes softened.
‘Don’t mention it. So, come on, then, it’s your manor. Have you got a favourite Italian restaurant round here?’
‘There’s a good one in Wardour Street.’
‘That’s it, then.’
We finished our drinks and left the pub and walked through Soho. The streets were crowded and Kylie took my arm, but kept stopping and dragging me back to look in shop windows. I didn’t mind in the least. Eventually we got into Wardour Street and found the restaurant. The maître d’ looked and sounded like Pavarotti, and welcomed Kylie like a long-lost relative. He tugged the rest of the staff out to show them who’d arrived, then slid us into a corner by the window at a table covered with a red-checkered tablecloth and brought bread sticks, butter and a bottle of Chianti without being asked.
‘You have been here before,’ I said.
‘Often.’
‘What do you recommend?’
‘The steak in red wine sauce is always good.’
‘That’ll do me. What about you?’
‘Pasta in pesto sauce.’
I caught Pavarotti’s eye and he loomed over the table and we ordered. He approved of our choice, and recommended the minestrone to start. We both concurred. The food was as good as she’d said and, after the first bottle of wine had vanished and a junior waiter had brought a second, we were chatting away like old friends. During the meal there was no mention of where we’d met or what we’d done. I finished up with an alcoholic zabaglione, and Kylie had Kiwi fruit flavoured ice-cream. By the time the coffee and brandies arrived, everything was copacetic. I looked at my watch: nine-thirty. ‘Am I keeping you?’ she asked.
‘Course not. I was just thinking how time flies when you’re having fun.’
‘Liar.’
‘It’s true,’ I insisted.
‘Then I’m flattered.’
‘So you should be. What do you want to do now?’
‘I don’t mind. What are the options?’